


talk dirty to me

by sevenfoxes, theladyscribe



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: ARE THESE TAGS SELLING YOU ON THIS FIC BECAUSE THEY SHOULD, Barebacking, Blowjobs, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, F/M, Fingering, GOD ALL OF THESE TAGS ARE SEXUAL, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Pregnancy, RIDICULOUSLY HILARIOUS DIRTY TALK, and they are really cheesy and bad, because it shouldn't, because it's RPF, chris evans has inappropriate chemistry with all his costars, chris evans's dirty goddamn mind, imagined internal monologues during sex, porn... with plot?, uncomfortable parties, why does this surprise me?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 21:06:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2083119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfoxes/pseuds/sevenfoxes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ahh,” Scarlett says, the phone rustling as she presumably gets into bed. Chris can hear Romain murmuring in the background, and Scarlett shushes him. The time difference is putting a real strain on their chats; he still can’t believe she lives in Paris now.  “Is your biological clock ticking?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I know men like you,” Scarlett says.  “You have a little timer inside of you that winds down until you must mate and marry and make babies!”  She makes a humming noise.  “I don’t get it, either.  What’s the rush?  You could potentially knock someone up when you’re like <em>eighty</em>, for fuck’s sake.”</p><p>--</p><p><strike>five</strike> <strike>six?</strike> <strike>seven?</strike> <strike>eight</strike> <strike>nine</strike> eight <strike>women</strike> people chris evans <strike>tried to knock up</strike> <strike>talked about knocking up</strike> <strike>wanted to knock up</strike> <strike>thought about knocking up</strike> <strike>could have knocked up (in his mind)</strike> contemplated knocking up and the one <strike>time</strike> person he <strike>succeeded</strike> <strike>actually did</strike> <strike>succeeded</strike> actually did.</p><p>(alternatively: chris evans bangs a lot of his costars.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	talk dirty to me

**Author's Note:**

> or: chris evans seriously has the worst dirty talk ever.
> 
> or: slutty chris evans makes sure his sexual partners have a good time. ~~except jessica biel~~.
> 
> or: WHATEVER IT’S JUST A LOT OF CHRIS EVANS QUASI-EMOTIONAL PORN, OKAY?
> 
> (Yes, that strikethroughed paragraph was our working description. We were really indecisive. Obviously.)

**1\. Kat Donahue From High School**

The strange - and sometimes awkward - part of living in the same house for the most of your life is that you grow up with the same people, the same neighbours, the same kids in your class, the same babysitters. People know your shit and you know theirs, and the gossip travels like wildfire through the Elm-lined streets.

Chris has known the Donahue family for a long as he can remember. They live in the large house with red shutters down near the mouth of the ravine that Chris spends a considerable amount of his childhood fucking around in, catching frogs and covering himself in enough mud that his mother starts leaving the hose attached to the spout at the side of the house even though it leaks and makes a little lake near Scott’s bike. 

The Donahues have three kids: two sons, both older than Chris, and a daughter his age, Kathryn. Chris is the same classroom as Kat through a good chunk of elementary school (most of which he doesn’t remember, except for the one time she shoved him off the jungle gym in third grade and he ended up with a cut so deep on his arm from one of the metal bars that he needed stitches), then ends up in a few of the same classes in middle and high school, though she’s in a lot more advanced placement classes than he is. 

Chris knows Kat’s brothers Charlie and Sam a lot better than he does her (thanks to a couple years of little league and the aforementioned ravine hijinks that last a lot longer than they should considering their ages), but he’s had a crush on her since he finally gave up the ghost on his babysitter, Sophie, who had moved into the city to attend UMass the fall of the year he turned fourteen.

One minute she’s the skinny girl who spends lazy fall evenings racing her brothers down their street on identical bikes and the next she’s… curvy. It feels like it happens overnight, like one day he walks out of his house to say hi to her and her brothers and she suddenly has boobs and an ass. And he finds himself looking.

Kat’s pretty, hair that straddles the line somewhere between red and blonde, and freckles that cover her face when she’s young, then just span the bridge across her nose and cheeks by the time they both land in high school. A lot of the guys in their neighbourhood start biking around the block evenings they know she’ll be sitting on the porch, sketching or writing; Chris develops a distinct dislike of every one of them.

By the time they’re fifteen, Chris’s very limited spank-bank is filled with fantasies of climbing into her bedroom (the third window on the second level, the one right next to the really ancient oak that shades their backyard) and lying with her on her bed, kissing her. Touching her. Later, when he gets a bit of experience with other girls under his belt, he imagines what her breasts would feel like, if she’d be wet like them between her legs, what kind of noises he could get her to make.

Chris finds out senior year, when they start dating about three weeks before homecoming. Well, what really happens is this: Chris finally mans up asks Kat to go with him to homecoming, and instead of her telling him what to wear and when to pick her up, they start hanging out and doing shit together. When he comes over to play Nintendo with Sam, who’s living at home while he attends community college, he ends up ditching Sam an hour in to go hang out in the living room with her. Her parents don’t allow him up in her room with her (or anywhere other than the main floor of the house), but it’s private enough in the living room that he can run his hands up her legs when she tosses them across his lap as they watch whatever crap she’s switched on, can kiss her a little less than chastely when he thinks they won’t get caught. Soon enough, he stops pretending to come over for Sam at all, knocking on the front door and asking an increasingly worried-looking Mrs. Donahue if Kat is home.

So he guesses they're dating.

(Chris has had other girlfriends before Kat, but they weren't homecoming court candidates. This is a big deal. Plus, he thinks he loves her.)

A few weeks after homecoming and whatever’s happening between them is serious enough that he’s already gotten a threatening talk from Sam ( _Hurt her and they won’t even find your dick, Evans_ ) and a cautious talk from his mother ( _Baby, I know you care about her, but you need to be smart and you need to be respectful. If she doesn’t want to, you need to respect that and not put pressure on her_ ) before she hands him a box of condoms.

They’ve made out a lot, mostly in his basement or in the ravine (different hijinks now that he’s older), and he’s already gotten a nervous but _amazing_ handjob. The first time he gets his hands into her panties is like a fucking revelation, and she makes the most beautiful, broken noises when he makes her come on his fingers.

Then her parents go away for a special weekend in Maine, leaving Sam in charge of the house; Sam promptly screws off to stay with friends who live in downtown Boston for the weekend as well, drinking and fucking around, swearing Kat to secrecy. Which… leaves her house completely free. She invites him over Friday at lunch with a nervous smile, letting him lace their fingers together across the table with only a light blush this time.

He’s barely in the door that night before Kat’s got her hand on his arm, yanking him straight past the living room and up the stairs to her bedroom. Christ. The number of fantasies he’s had of the room _alone_ is enough that he feels himself blush a bit when he crosses over the threshold. It’s nothing like how he imagined it: no pink and less stuff on the walls, just a Nirvana poster and a few ribbons and awards, some photos of her and her friends taped to a small mirror over the desk in the corner.

It takes him about ten seconds to back her into her bed and gently nudge her down. She spreads her legs a bit once she’s lying back on the comforter (which is covered in tiny smiling suns - it’s weird), and reaches up to pull him down too, which, yeah. This is so much better than any of his fantasies.

They make out until Chris feels his mouth start to go numb a bit. It’s excellent. Chris can’t remember the last time he felt so loose and happy, yet ramped up at the same time. Kat is topless, making all these whining noises underneath him as he presses his finger into her a little harder. She’s so wet that she’s almost slippery, his fingers sliding all over the place, but she seems to be into it.

“Do you want to-” he starts to ask, which sets off something, because she’s suddenly digging her fingers into the meat of his shoulders and jerking her hips into his hand as she comes.

“Yeah,” she says as she comes down, letting him plant wet kisses on her chest. He’s delighted, now that he’s gotten a good look at her naked, to find that she’s got freckles all over her chest, too. “I do.”

So, while he wasn’t counting his chickens before they hatched and was more than happy to just spend an evening making out with her on her living room couch, making her come somewhere actually comfortable instead of up against a tree in the ravine or in the damp little storage room in his basement that always smells like maple syrup, he did come prepared. She shucks off her pretty ruined panties almost chastely as he roots around in his jacket for the condom, taking the time to strip out of his pants and boxers before climbing back on the bed.

"You know what you're doing, right?" she asks as she watches him rip open the condom packet. They both know the pickle Amy Wilson got herself into with Joey Russet over the summer. Rumour had it she was pregnant, but Amy didn’t look it in September when she came back to school, though Joey had been shipped off to boarding school in Vermont.

"Yeah, of course." He doesn't say, _My mom showed me how to do this_ , because no girl wants to hear about her boyfriend’s mother when he’s between her legs. But it also brings up another thought. “Have you done this before?”

Kat goes bright red in three seconds and flops back on the bed, her eyes slamming shut. “Um. Not really.”

That both surprises him (she seemed pretty serious with Mike junior year) and makes him really, really nervous. The first girl he was ever with was also a virgin, and it had really hurt her the first time. Enough that he had really felt guilty afterwards, even though Jamie hadn’t been upset at all. “Oh,” Chris says, running a hand up her thigh trying to soothe her a bit, “that’s fine.” She opens her eyes and he smiles at her. “Really. You know it’ll hurt a bit, right?”

“It’s okay,” she tells him, and then stutters and laughs a bit before continuing. “Um, I spent the summer horseback riding.”

Chris has absolutely no idea what that has to do with anything, but she’s naked and spread out in front of him, so he elects not to give a shit. He settles down between her thighs, letting the weight of his body rest on her. “Okay.”

When he pushes inside of her, a pinched, uncomfortable look spreads across her face, but he slides in with a lot less maneuvering and resistance than he had with Jamie, which lets him concentrate more on getting her to relax. Chris leans down and rubs his thumbs over her nipples, mouths at the soft skin that covers the lower curve of her breast when the skin moves to stretch over her ribs.

Once she nods that she’s all right and he starts moving, he loses himself a bit. He’s done this enough that the sensation isn’t a surprise the way it had been the first few times, the heat and slick feeling of it making him blow his load quickly enough that he was actually embarrassed about it. But this is _Kat_ , the girl he spent the better half of four years jerking off to, and his mother was right: it is different with someone you love.

She’s making these soft noises again, moving away from discomfort like she’s enjoying it, and Chris, in that moment, wants nothing more than to make this really, really good for her.

But then the small, vocal back part of his brain starts spouting the worst shit, little imaginary moments of time filtering into his conscious thoughts. He thinks about pushing into Kat without the condom, thinks about how hot and wet she would be, thinks about coming inside of her. Making her his. _You want this? Fill her up with come, knock her up._

The thoughts are such a shock that he comes almost instantly in easily one of the most mindblowing orgasms he’s ever experienced. It actually hurts for a second as it travels up his spine, then blossoms out so beautifully that he just wants to stay like this forever, between Kat’s legs and _happy_.

When she lets out a frustrated noise, he comes back to himself. _Oh shit._

She lets out another angry whine when he pulls out, yanking off the condom as carefully as he can but still making a bit of a mess of things. His hands are shaking when he looks down at her, still spread out and clearly worked up.

“Wait, what’re you--” she says as he drops back down onto her gently, kissing down her body. He’s never done this before, but he saw it in one of Charlie’s pornos that Sam showed him a few years ago; he’s always wanted to try it. “Chris--”

He runs his fingers over her and thinks about the shit his mind was spewing earlier. Pleasure sparks up through his body again.

“Oh my _GOD_ ,” Kat moans, her hands running down to Chris’s hair and fisting painfully in it when he presses his lips to her pussy.

Years later, he’ll still remember this orgasm and how hot it had been when she had come on his mouth.

They date for another four months - and sleep together as many times as luck will allow - until Kat’s mother finds a condom wrapper that Chris stupidly leaves behind in Kat’s room when her parents go to see a movie. The Donahues are not the type of Catholics that the Evanses are (lapsed, Christmas Eve Mass only), and Karen Donahue marches over to Chris’s house and promptly informs his mother that Chris is not only not welcome in their house anymore, he is also not so much as to speak to their daughter again.

Chris is pretty fucking devastated. So is Kat, who is grounded for the _entire remainder_ of senior year.

She still sneaks out for hurried make-out sessions with him after school, but it puts a serious stop to any sex, and even worse, to spending any type of time with her outside of school. He ends up missing being able to sit with her and watch shitty tv or play with her hair while she does her homework in his lap more than he misses the sex. (Although he misses the sex. A lot.)

But they make it work while it lasts.

In the end, Kat ends up going to Harvard after senior year, which Chris and the rest of the neighborhood never hears the end of (her parents are so proud that the whole premarital sex anger seems to go out the window and the Evans family is back on the Christmas card list again) and Chris heads off to New York City to try and land some internships at casting agencies and audition for a few parts.

They both promise to write and don’t. Chris still thinks about Kat a lot through the years.

(Last he hears of her, she’s joined a prestigious law firm in Chicago. She still sends a Christmas card to his family every year.)

 

**2\. Jessica Biel**

His agent introduces him to Jessica at an afterparty for the Teen Choice Awards, essentially telling him that if he wants to make it in Hollywood, he needs to spend time in the company of beautiful people. Jessica is gorgeous and funny to boot, so this isn't really a hardship.

They don't hit it off immediately, mostly because Chris has already had one beer too many, and his brain-mouth filter is gone. "Do you wanna get out of here?" is the first thing he says to her after the introductions, and he's still sober enough to notice his agent's wince if not enough to stop himself from asking.

"Not really," she says, and she starts chatting with Chris's agent, turning away from him and cutting him out of the conversation.

It works out okay, though, because she ends up switching to the same agency, which means Carey finds reasons to match them up at events. Jessica finally starts warming up to him after the third "red carpet extravaganza" they attend together, when he keeps her from tripping on the carpet (which is purple, not red) in her stilettos. She smiles at him and thanks him, and they spend most of the evening ignoring everyone else in favor of bitching about the ugly-ass carpet. 

After that, she actually starts calling him herself instead of Carey calling on her behalf. And they start spending time together outside of red carpet events, which is how Chris finds out that she likes beer just as much as he does and holds it just about as well. This leads to some maybe-bad decisions, but it also leads them to become an exclusive couple, so all in all, Chris counts it as a win.

On the surface, everything is going really well - Chris is working steadily, if not always happily, and Jessica's getting more buzz as she takes on bigger and riskier roles instead of more _7th Heaven_ crap - but Chris can't stop the nagging feeling that something's off. They go to clubs and parties, drink, go home, fuck, sleep, nurse a hangover, and then do it all over again. They're young and this is the life, but nobody ever told him about the clutching fear that it will all end, the constant hum in the back of his head that this could be his last film, his last appearance, his last audition. Jessica seems unfazed by it, doesn't seem bothered by the same terror that he can't shake.

To cope, he insists they go out more, do _more_ events, get _more_ exposure.

(In hindsight, he'll realize that this is the exact opposite of what he should do, but right now he's young and naive and unaware that social anxiety and crippling fear of failure are things that can be managed via therapy rather than forcing yourself to overcome them. It will be a great day when Michael Chiklis finds him after the _Fantastic Four_ press conference and hands him a card with the name of his therapist, but that day is still more than a year away.)

Jessica goes along with it at first, but after the third night out in a week, she puts her foot down, insisting they should stay in. This leads to their getting wasted at home, and sloppy fucking on the floor of the living room. He's not really aware of what he's doing or saying, but the next morning, Jessica says, "Listen, I appreciate that everyone says weird shit when they fuck, but it's kind of weird you want to get me pregnant. Is that… is it something you actually want?"

He's not sure what to say, because he doesn't really remember saying that, and he's not sure if he should explain or apologize or what, so he says, "Uh."

"I mean, our relationship's not that serious, and I didn't think you wanted it to be. You don't, right?"

"No," he answers, and then more emphatically, "no. I guess I just got caught up in the moment or something. I wasn’t serious."

She nods, apparently satisfied, but Chris feels like he just dodged a fight.

They don't talk about it again until almost six months later. Jessica's been butting heads with the producers of _7th Heaven_ again, this time over the photoshoot she did for _Maxim_. Chris is being as supportive as he knows how, which admittedly doesn't amount to much more than letting Jessica rant at him. When she gets really worked up, they bust out the alcohol, or sometimes they just end up fucking.

Tonight is the latter, Jessica taking all her frustration out on him in a way that Chris really doesn't mind. She's got him halfway to blowing his load when she says, "Come on, Chris, tell me what you want."

And so he does, telling her how bad he wants her full of him, how he wants her big and round, how her tits will look so good when she’s carrying his kid and he can't wait to see her like that. He's half-incoherent, babbling shit about getting her so full she'll feel like bursting, and his orgasm is blinding. If his brain wasn’t dribbling out of his ears, he’d be embarrassed by just how much shit he spewed at her before he came, but… yeah, his brain is dribbling out his ears.

Jessica slips off him, and he's pretty sure she hasn't come yet, but she doesn't ask him to go down on her like she usually does when this happens. He means to ask, he really does, but he basically passes out after they toss the condom.

The next morning is a rare day home for both of them, which normally means lazy sex, mimosas, and brunch - clothing optional - so he's surprised to find Jessica fully dressed when he walks into the kitchen.

"I think we need to talk," she says, handing him a cup of coffee.

"Okay," he says, not sure where this is going, making a face at the lack of sugar in his drink. He hates that he’s only in his boxers right now while she’s fully dressed; Chris feels weirdly vulnerable.

She sits down opposite him and doesn't look at him when she says, "Listen, I know you said it’s just a sex thing, but I’m starting to feel like it’s more than that, and I’m really not looking to have kids right now. Or anytime soon."

He thinks he's supposed to be upset - Jessica is definitely bracing herself like she's expecting an argument - but he’s really not looking to have kids right now either. He loves kids, wants them eventually, but it really is just something that gets his rocks off at this point. "Um, okay."

She looks startled and confused, and he realizes he should probably explain.

"It's just… a thing? It doesn't - I don't really want kids? At least, not right now." He rubs a hand through his hair, nervous, because he's never actually had to talk to anyone about this. Most of the other people he's slept with haven't stuck around long enough for him to even feel comfortable and loose enough to let go and say the shit that tends to bubble up in his mind when he’s fucking someone, and the couple who had hadn't lasted much after the first time he used it. "It doesn't mean I actually want to get you pregnant. It's just dirty talk."

Jessica's expression has gone from confused to something inscrutable, which probably means she thinks he's extremely strange. It’s definitely the face she gets when she’s judging other people, which lets him know that she’s judging him pretty hard right now. "It just kind of creeps me out," she says after they've spent a couple awkward minutes not exactly looking at each other. "I'd appreciate it if we took the dirty talk in a different direction, okay?"

"Okay," he says, because it seems like the safest course of action. "I can do that."

He's mostly successful, too, catching himself before he tips into inanity when they're having sex. Jessica seems happy enough, but keeping his mouth in check proves to be a strain on his libido, the extra focus distracting him from the task at hand. This, plus all the shit going down with _7th Heaven_ and their conflicting shooting schedules, causes Jessica to call a break, which Chris is secretly kind of happy to take.

When they both get cast for _Cellular_ , he's worried about it. Apparently, their agency declined to inform the studio that their split wasn't the most amicable (if Carey even told the studio they'd split at all), and when Chris asks about it, Carey just tells him that he's welcome to back out if he doesn't want the work. He's not dumb enough to back out, but he's really not sure this is a good idea.

He doesn't see Jessica until they both arrive for the initial read-through. She's all smiles, looking upbeat and happy even when Kim consistently fucks up her lines, keeping them there hours later than anticipated. When they finally break for the day, she pulls him aside and says, "I've missed you."

Chris lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "I missed you, too," he admits, and asks her to go grab a bite with him at the small 24-hour diner down the street.

They move back into the relationship slowly and casually, and he’s forgotten how much fun Jessica can be when there’s less pressure on the both of them. They take East and Tina out for walks together, go home to Boston for Thanksgiving with his family, and she basically moves in to his place in LA. It’s as close as they’ve come to being a serious, adult couple, and Chris finds that he has a taste for it. 

But Jessica’s career takes a bit of a dip thanks to the lackluster performance of a few films that studios were counting on to be hits and a shitty little producer who decides to take out his frustration by badmouthing her to others in the industry, and the stressors return. The one thing Jessica handles poorly is career stress, and Chris starts to feel it in every inch of their lives together.

Making matters worse, Chris starts to hit an upswing. After _Cellular_ , Chris is cast in _Fantastic Four_ , which raises his profile significantly. As soon as it wraps, they're on screen together again for _London_. This is not actually where their relationship goes to hell, but it might be the beginning of the end: the arguments between Syd and London sound an awful lot like some of the arguments they've had at home. They don't talk about it before Jessica flies to Europe for _The Illusionist_ , and they definitely don't talk about it before Chris starts filming the _Fantastic Four_ sequel. Outside of their respective film premieres, they don't actually see much of each other. It feels a little like they've come full-circle, and soon they'll be arranging their dates through their agency again.

He's actually the one to call it quits the second time, after another long talk with Chiklis toward the end of filming _Silver Surfer_. (The guy is so in tune with his inner self that it seriously makes Chris envious. His inner self is a confused toddler.)

A couple days after the premiere of _The Illusionist_ , he takes Jessica to some sort of fusion restaurant she’s been dying to go to and that he’s been putting off because he has about the same interest in Finnish/Thai fusion as he does in having his arms chopped off. But she pokes enough that eventually he gives in and makes reservations. They’re halfway through their (frankly awful) meal when he sighs and says, "I just don’t think this is going anywhere."

A look of deep relief flashes across her face and while, logically, he knows that he should be relieved himself that she’s not going to pitch a fit in the restaurant, there’s a small part of him inside that’s bitter that she doesn’t even want to fight for this. It’s easily the longest relationship he’s ever had - even with their breaks - and for a brief while when they were happiest, he really did see himself settling down with her.

“Me neither,” she says, and pokes at whatever godawful fish she ordered. When she looks up at him again, she looks genuinely sad and his anger melts away a bit. He really does care for her, they just… they’re just not the right fit. “You really are a great guy, Chris.”

A year later, she’s dating Justin Timberlake. He expects to feel upset about it, but doesn’t. Instead, her find himself genuinely hoping she’s found someone that can actually make her happy.

( _UR GROWING AS A PERSON!_ Scarlett texts him and he can practically feel the the sarcasm radiating from the phone.

 _shut up_ , he texts back.

_don’t be like that. plus, could you imagine listening to that squeaky voice all day? punishment enough. you may talk like a 70s porno, but at least you don’t sound like a neutered chipmunk._

_you’re the best._

_fuck yeah, i am._ )

 

**3\. Scarlett Johansson**

Despite what the press say, Chris actually meets Scarlett about a year before _The Perfect Score_ , a film that Chris, at the time, is actually excited about because a) he is about two weeks from getting evicted from his apartment in LA, and b) at least it isn’t a _Not Another Teen Movie_ sequel. Christ.

Chris meets Scarlett at some party that his agent, desperate to get Chris on the “major leagues” scene (rather than the minor leagues red carpet crap he does with Jessica), forces him to go to industry parties with promises that it’s just how Josh Harnett got his role in _Black Hawk Down_. It’s some young Hollywood bullshit that Chris, even this young and this new to the business, clearly recognizes as so painfully cliched that he spends most of the night trying to blend into the tacky fabric-covered walls instead of mingling the way he is, hypothetically, supposed to. Carey is a great guy and a decent enough agent, but Chris would rather chew off an arm than deal with this many people with egos the size of fucking tankers in a room.

(Yeah, he loves clubbing - he’s young, and booze, women, and decent music is something that he rarely turns down - and he can deal with red carpet shit where he mostly has to turn up and look pretty, but fuck, he hates industry parties. Just way too much hypocritical circle jerking for his tastes. The parties had been fun and exciting at first, but there’s only so much he can take now.)

But there are a lot of big time directors and casting agents here, so he makes nice and chats dutifully with a few that Carey pointed out.

He meets Scarlett at the bar about twenty minutes before he hauls ass out of there. He’s drunk enough that he doesn’t remember what he says to her exactly (something along the lines of _I loved you in Ghost World_ , which is true because he did, but Jesus, it’s not the first thing you say when trying to appear like you’re a non-idiot, semi-professional actor). She says exactly three words to him ( _Thanks_ and _Excuse me_ as she leans over to get her drink from the bartender), then disappears. Even tipsy, he’s pretty mortified with himself.

Chris ranks the party as one of the low points of his year. Which isn’t saying much because that year? God, it’s so dry that for the first time in his life he has to borrow some money from his parents to make rent because he gets about ten auditions at best, and every one of them is terrible. So when he lands _The Perfect Score_ , he celebrates by calling his mom, getting pleasantly drunk with Jessica and enjoying a weekend of pretty much non-stop sex.

Then he finds out they’ve cast Scarlett for Francesca’s role. Great. He’s thrilled. And by thrilled, he means slightly horrified, but also secretly excited because he really did like her in _Ghost World_. Truthfully, he doesn’t quite understand why she signs on for the movie considering how high her star is rising, but whatever.

Right before the shoot, Jessica calls a time out on their relationship. ( _Listen, it’s just too much, okay? I just can’t take this right now_ , she tells him, after spending twenty minutes crying about _7th Heaven_ ’s producers giving her a nasty dressing down on set. She quits shortly after, right before heading out for her _Blade_ shoot. She doesn’t call him, so he assumes that they’ve broken up.) It puts him in a fucking stellar mood.

The shoot itself turns out to be the closest thing to high school you can get to without actually taking classes. Everyone is trying to get into everyone else’s pants pretty much the entire time. Erika is constantly inviting Chris to come over and run lines, an offer he makes the mistake of accepting only once. That little lapse in judgement ends with Erika in his lap, offering to blow him, which is turned down on account of the fact that he’s currently splitting his time between trying to get into Natalie’s pants (a production assistant with a badass scar running down her neck that he really wants to lick) and wooing Scarlett (who other than the forced dialogue in their script has maybe said all of three more words to him, two of which were _Excuse me_ again).

Bryan, on the other hand, spends two dedicated weeks trying to fuck Scarlett before giving up and moving on to Erika.

“She’s a cold fish,” Bryan complains one night as the crew breaks down the set-up for one of the shots inside the vacant building they are using as SAT headquarters or some shit. “The too-good-for-you sort. God, a _serious actress_. The kind that’ll tell you to fuck off unless bending over for you will help her career.”

This results in two things. One: Chris develops (and maintains throughout the shoot) an extreme dislike of Greenberg. Two: Chris immediately stops trying to get into Scarlett’s pants. Bryan’s bullshit is like a cold fucking shower, and once using the brain outside of his pants, Chris sees just how uncomfortable and irritating the constant barrage of unwanted flirting is to her.

The funny part is soon after he stops hitting on her, Scarlett warms up to him. She starts talking to him in the make-up trailer and sits with him at the picnic benches they set up outside of craft services during meals, which for him consists of a lot of protein and for her a lot of salad. They’re practically chummy. It really pisses Greenberg off, which is just the icing on the cake. They play stupid games between takes, and she lends him her copy of _The Kite Runner_ and tells him he has to give it a try. By the end of the third week, he’d actually consider Scarlett a friend. It’s nice.

What else is nice? The night shooting wraps, Scarlett ends up in his room, a case of beer split between them. Chris knows that his mother would not be thrilled about him giving booze to someone who’s underage, but she’d definitely approve of making sure Scarlett is safe about it, so - completely selflessly - he’s not going to let her wander off until she’s sobered up a bit.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t factor in his own stellar tipsy decision-making, so when she climbs into his lap after the third beer, he just thinks _fuck it_ and makes out with her until she’s pliant enough that he can get his hands down her pants. The booze makes it a little hazy the next morning when he wakes up to her in his bed beside him, but he definitely remembers the rough little moan she made when he got his fingers into her deep and pressed his thumb down on her clit and made her come.

(He came in his pants. Which, _delightfully_ , he had not changed before passing out. His fingers are a little tacky too.)

But then Scarlett’’s off to New York City while he runs back to LA to shoot _Cellular_ , where Jessica arrives on set to shoot with a heartfelt apology and a little groveling. He’s so painfully smitten with her that even he is a little ashamed at how fast he acquiesces. But then Scarlett’s dating Josh Hartnett (which makes him fucking laugh his ass off when he thinks back to his agent's words in forcing him to go to that godawful party), so in the end, there’s no awkwardness and no hard feelings. Scarlett just texts him a few weeks later with, _I just saw my upstairs neighbor walking her dog around in a baby stroller. FUCK ME, I MISSED NYC!_

So it’s totally great for a couple years. They text and email when shit blows up in the press (read: _Fantastic Four_ , his awkward break up with Jessica, her generally low-key break ups with Josh and a few other guys not worthy of her, some horribly degrading article about her in Maxim that makes Chris wants to set shit on fire, a couple really awful photos of him stumbling out of a nightclub completely drunk which end up everywhere) and occasionally meet up for coffee and bitching when they manage to be on the same coast (which happens rarely).

Fast forward to 2007 though (this time it’s _The Nanny Diaries_ , yet another film he’s not quite sure why either of them sign up for considering he’s no longer hurting to make rent, god bless you, Marvel), and Chris is on top of her, Scarlett’s legs wrapped tight around his waist as he fucks her through the damn mattress.

He’s spent the day mocking her in her Betsy Ross get up on set, and while it was truly hideous, Scarlett’s tits were made for a corset, something he tells her when she shows up at his room at ten with a six-pack and two bags of Cheetos.

"Shut your face," she growls, shoving the beer at him. It's some brand he doesn't recognize, probably a local microbrew, because Scarlett is a snob in all things alcoholic.

Splitting a six-pack between them isn't going to get them anywhere near drunk, so Chris drags Scarlett back out into midnight Manhattan, in search of a 24-hour bodega where they can get more beer and better food than fucking Cheetos. They end up with a whole pizza and a case of Sam Adams, all of which they have to haul back six blocks to the hotel.

The pizza's cold by the time they get back to his room, but it doesn't matter. Scarlett turns on the TV and flips channels until she finds a shitty action movie. They sprawl on the bed, the pizza box between them as they make up a drinking game to go along with the movie. ("Take a drink every time they put their sunglasses on!" "Two drinks every time an alien disappears!" When Roddy Piper announces he's all out of gum, they look at each other and say simultaneously, "CHUG!")

By the end of the movie, they're both sufficiently sloshed that it seems like a good idea to toss the pizza box on the floor and make out. The TV moves on to infomercials, and Chris moves on to showing Scarlett just how much he likes her tits.

He has her shirt and pants off, and she moans when he gets his mouth around her left nipple through her bra. He adds a little teeth, which has her arching off the bed.

"You like that?"

She responds by digging her fingers into his shoulders and moaning again. Chris pulls away, which gets a moue of disappointment.

"Patience, Scarlett," he says, reaching around to remove her bra, letting himself run at the mouth, just drunk enough that his brain can’t quite keep it in check.. "I'm gonna make you feel so good, eat you out, get you so wet.” Scarlett moans when Chris reaches down and yanks a little roughly at her panties, pulling at them until they’re caught around only one of her ankles.

“You want me inside of you?” he asks as his mouth skims over the flat plain of her stomach, and she doesn’t answer so much as she gets her fingers into his hair and pushes him down low enough that the next words are spoken right over her cunt. “You want me to fill you up, huh?”

"Yeah," she gasps, rolling her hips up. Chris sits back so he can take off the rest of _his_ clothes, and she lets out a frustrated whine. "Come _on_."

He drapes himself over her so he can reach the nightstand, pulling out a string of condoms.

Scarlett raises an eyebrow at him. "A little ambitious there, Evans?"

"Just well-prepared," he answers as he tears one open and rolls it on. "A guy's gotta be ready for anything." He grunts a little as he thrusts into her, which elicits a delightful gasp that he licks from her mouth.

They set a steady pace, Scarlett raking her fingers down his back and making all sorts of encouraging noises. Chris slows down a little so he can focus his attention back on her tits (they really are magnificent and he wants to make sure she knows it), but when she pulls on his hair and says, "Harder," he is more than happy to oblige.

"You like that?" he asks, pistoning his hips hard enough that she almost does a full-body arch. He leans down to growl in her ear, "Want me in so deep you can feel it everywhere, don't you? God, I could just fill you all up, get you full with my cock, bet you'd like--"

He cuts off because she's laughing at him - laughing right in his face. “Oh my god!” she crows, but leans up enough to kiss and lick at his mouth. “Is that a thing for you?”

“Uh,” is all that Chris manages to sputter because he’s motionless inside her, but he’s _still inside her_ , and he's not sure what to do. It's not too late to stop, but it's late enough that he really, really doesn't want to.

"I had no idea you were so _dirty_ , Evans. You say that to all the girls or just to me?" she asks with a wicked grin, and it's at that point that he knows he is _never_ going to hear the end of it, ever, no matter how the rest of this night goes. He's debating between shrugging it off and dying of embarrassment, but Scarlett rolls her hips and says, "Did I say you could stop?"

“Um… no,” Chris says, and lets his hips snap back into hers hard enough that she lets out a soft moan.

“I thought you were going to fill me up,” Scarlett says, half-laughing, but she’s not mocking him - it’s playful. He’s still a bit mortified, but it’s melting back into something that’s slowly turning his crank, so when she says, “Come on, Evans, give it to me,” he laughs and drops his weight onto his left forearm so he can pull her leg higher up onto his hip. 

(They stay in touch after they finish filming, but he’s got back to back shoots between _Street Kings_ , _Push_ and _The Loss of a Teardrop Diamond_ , and the next time he calls her up a few months later, she breathlessly tells him, _I really like him, Chris_. 

That’s how he finds out about Ryan Reynolds. What a fucking disaster that turns out to be.)

 

**4\. Abigail the Screenwriter**

Chris meets her in the produce aisle of Whole Foods where she’s tapping her knuckles on a honeydew melon and looking at it like there’s a semi-probable chance it will explode in her hands. Apparently finding the melon lacking, she drops it onto the pile and picks up an identical looking melon, tapping her knuckles against the rind again.

“Um,” Chris says, dropping his head of cabbage into a plastic bag, “I think that only works for watermelons.”

The woman is so startled that she nearly drops the melon (it wobbles a bit in her grasp, but she grabs it before it goes flying). “Oh,” she says, and there’s a moment where she clearly recognizes who he is, but decides not to say anything, which instantly puts her in his good graces. That was half the reason he stopped shopping at Mayfair’s; the last place he wants to have someone fawning all over him is when he’s picking up toilet paper and steaks.

She frowns and drops the melon. “Fuck it, I’m getting canned peaches.” Her cart lets out a terrible squealing noise when she steers it away, pausing to wave over her shoulder, “Thanks.”

Over the next two months, he sees her a couple times in the store: again in the produce section, this time sniffing nectarines; in the bakery aisle with a half dozen loaves of garlic bread in her cart; trying to hold up three cereal boxes at the same time so she can read the nutritional labels, dropping two of them.

The last time, she sneaks up on him.

“Yeah, you’re not going to want to get that one,” he hears her say over his shoulder as he looks at another bottle of red wine. Chris has always been a beer guy, so he knows exactly dick squat about wine; typically, he goes with whatever label is most entertaining, which is why his sister started asking him to bring dessert to her dinners instead.

“Yeah?”

She nods with a slightly pathetic look on her face. “Trust me, I know my booze. I’m a writer.”

Chris lets out a good laugh and watches her lean forward to grab another bottle off the shelf. “This is a decent red. It’s cheap, but it tastes better than most of the shit that costs an arm and a leg, and the label is fancy enough that you don’t look like a tightass if you’re bringing it over to someone’s place.”

“Thanks.” He really means that. Picking out booze for other people is on the same level of fun he experiences on press tours when he's asked about getting waxed for a part.

“No problem. I probably would have spent twenty minute knocking fucking melons if not for you, so I guess we’re even now.”

She smiles and for the first time, Chris is a bit struck by how pretty she is. She’s got these really vivid green eyes, a great ass that she seems to squeeze into yoga pants most days, and is nicely stacked. Thank the lord his mother can’t hear his internal dialogue, because he’d be getting a lengthy lecture about respecting women, and _Christopher Robert Evans, I did not raise you to objectify women_! That being said, what tips the scales? She’s wearing a _the hardest part about the zombie apocalypse will be pretending I’m not excited_ t-shirt. 

“Chris,” he says, shifting the bottle to his left hand so he can hold out the right.

Her hand is warm and soft in his as she shakes it. “Abigail.”

 

Abigail actually _is_ a writer, and not in that, oh I’m working on that novel I’ve been writing for the past ten years etc, way. Sitting in a booth at the restaurant he takes her to, she tells Chris about the new HBO show she’s a staff writer for. The first dates with women he doesn’t meet through work are always so fucking awkward because when they get to his turn to talk, he’s just really not sure what to say. Does he play it stupid and tell them about himself like they probably don’t already know, or… fuck, first dates are the worst.

But oddly enough, the first date is a breeze with Abigail, largely because she doesn’t really leave the pause that makes him feel like he needs to fill it, instead segueing from her backstory to him by saying, “Ugh, so I heard Paramount is totally fucking your budget. Lipstein is such a turd.”

It’s great. They finish dinner, he drives her home and they proceed to make out for a good half-hour in the car until she whacks her knee into the gear shift, finally notices the time and tells him she’s got to go feed Kermit.

“Dog?” he asks hopefully, even though the name suggests frog, but what grown woman has a frog for a pet?

She laughs. “Bird. My landlord won’t let me have a dog because he’s a fucking control freak and blah blah something about the hardwood floors.” Abigail kisses him one last time and darts out of the car; he waits until he sees her unlock her door and slip inside with a wave before he pulls away.

By September, he’s spending most of his free time at her place when he’s not bulking up to Captain America-size, which is pretty ridiculous considering she lives in a studio in Van Nuys, not far from his place in Encino, which is literally about twenty times bigger. But he loves how homey her apartment is, how she’ll walk around half-naked and not bother putting on proper clothes if they’re not leaving her place (and he finds out that she has a whole _collection_ of zombie t-shirts, which is infinitely hot). It’s only when he’s at her place that he realizes how cold his feels most of the time and how much he fucking misses Boston.

And the sex? The sex is great.

He tries to keep the mouth in check, mostly because history has taught him that while it gets his rocks off, it doesn’t necessarily work for everyone. And while Abigail is more adventurous in bed than some of the other women he’s dated, he’s finally got a nice steady thing going, so he’ll take it slow.

But then one night, they end up going down to a new club down on Sunset and get spectacularly hammered. It doesn’t help that Josh shows up with a little pink pill that he tells him will give him the smoothest high he’s ever had - Chris is _not_ into pills, but Josh is relatively low-risk, so he says fuck it and takes it. Abigail declines, but drinks enough to keep pace with all the guys, and she weighs a good hundred pounds less than they do.

They end up back at his place, and they don’t even make it to the bed; by the time they get to the strange rug in front of the fireplace that his interior designer insists lifts the ambience, he’s already got her down to her panties.

He’s only been fucking her for a minute when he feels the shit that he knows he’s not going to be able to keep down start rumbling in his throat. The sex is amazing and so good, and he’s floating, so when the first words slip out - _You want this? Huh? You want my come?_ \- he doesn’t even really realize he’s said them.

At least until he hears her moan, “Yes. Jesus, yes, yes, I want it.”

The worst (best) part of it is that this time he’s not wearing a condom. They use them all the time, but he’s drunk and high and fucking stupid. Later, he’ll thank his fucking lucky stars that Abigail is smart and responsible and is on the pill, that they’ve both been tested, but right now, higher brain function has been limited to telling Abigail exactly what he’s going to do to her.

He literally does not remember half of the shit he says, but he knows he definitely tells her he’s going to knock her up. And that she _begs_ him to. Jesus.

The next morning, they both feel like total shit. Abigail makes eggs that neither of them eats, instead sucking down coffee and promotional bottles of SmartWater that the company sends him hoping he’ll get photographed holding them. They don’t really talk about the previous night other than Chris telling Abigail he’s not fucking taking anything Josh gives him ever again.

Except the next time he’s over at her place and she drags him over to her bed, sick of watching him read scripts, she says, “So, you gonna give me your come?” and holds up a condom before peeling her shirt off.

As it turns out, Abigail is a bit of a talker in bed once you get her started, and Chris seriously regrets holding off for all those weeks because it feels so good to just totally let go, to say all the shit floating around in the back of his head because it gets his partner off. Abigail’s got a filthy, descriptive mouth, and throws some of his own shit back at him, which only eggs him on.

It’s great for a few months, but by January, her show has started shoot in Maryland and he’s on back to back shoots that have him flying all over the Northwest and parts of Eastern Europe. It’s weird, but the relationship literally fades out: they go from chatting every day to every few days, to once every other week, and by the time he gets back to LA, there’s a message on his phone from her asking if she can pick up a couple things she left at his place.

She never ends up picking up her sweater or earrings. Weirdly, he can’t bring himself to toss them, so he sticks them in his guest room. Every once in a while, he’ll accidentally run across her sweater and it makes him think of the time he got her on her hands and knees and made her tell him how much she wanted him to knock her up before he fucked her.

(Several months later, Scarlett texts him to say he needs to turn on HBO _right fucking now_.

He switches it on in the middle of a pretty graphic sex scene, the man on screen taking the girl from behind and telling her _I'm gonna knock you up, fill you up so good you can barely walk_. She answers back, _God, yes, please, I want your come_ , and it's at that point that Chris switches the TV back off, more than a little traumatized to hear his own words on the television.

 _i hate you_ , he texts back to Scarlett. _why did you tell me to do that?_

_now you know exactly how much you sound like a porno. ;P_

Chris doesn't answer, too mortified to come up with a response.

The show is a critical and ratings hit, and Abigail wins an Emmy for the episode. In a post-show interview with E!, she says, "I'd like to give a special thanks to my ex, who taught me everything I needed to know about knocking melons."

Chris doesn't even bother to listen to Scarlett's voicemail before he deletes it.)

 

**5\. Minka Kelly**

He meets Minka through a friend of a friend, and they hit it off right away, bonding over sports and beer.

They date for three months and it's great. Chris loves it. He's totally into her, she's totally into him, and it's easy. They just… _work_.

And then Minka flies back to Texas for _Friday Night Lights_. Chris has never been great at long-distance relationships, finds it difficult to keep up the romance when there are too many miles and not enough time off to visit. He's pretty good at long-distance friendships, though, so they keep in touch for a little while, exchanging funny stories about their respective coworkers, trading sports gossip, and generally keeping tabs.

The emails become less and less frequent, as Minka gets busier with her TV show and Chris films back-to-back-to-back movies, until finally, they stop altogether.

(He finds out later, via the gossip rag that is Scarlett, that Minka started dating _Derek Jeter_ around the same time that the emails stopped. Chris actually respects Jeter as a baseball player, even if the man does play for the Evil Empire, but he also has an intense dislike of guys who make their girlfriends stop talking to their male friends. He thinks it's a mark of irrational jealousy and women deserve better than that.) (He is aware that they broke up, and that Minka's decisions are her own, thank you, Scarlett, but he still misses talking to her and if he can blame Jeter instead of her, he will.)

He runs into Minka again just after filming on _Avengers_ wraps. She's between projects, and he's gearing up for the nightmare that is the press tour schedule, and somehow, they pick up right where they left off, broken engagements with Yankees shortstops notwithstanding. She travels with him for the duration of the press tour, hangs out when the cast goes to dinner together, doesn't mind if he falls asleep on the way back to the hotel of the week.

He flies to Prague to film _Snowpiercer_ after the premiere, but unlike last time, he tells Minka she should come with him. She can't come for the whole shoot (and he's going to be insanely busy since he's in nearly every scene anyway), but she agrees to fly in for a week.

They somehow luck out and pick the week that they're filming the kindergarten car, which means Chris doesn't come home with nearly as many weird bruises as the Yekaterina Bridge sequence or the sauna car. It's actually a pretty light filming schedule, because they're shooting everything with Allison while they've got her, including the close-ups and the opening for the scene. This means Chris gets two full days off in the middle of Minka's visit. _And_ the night between the two days happens to be the transit of Venus, which Chris has had marked on his calendar since the first one back in 2004. This is going to be the best mini-vacation ever.

They do touristy things in the morning of the first day, touring the castle and the old city, exploring the Mucha museum and gaping at the Astronomical Clock in Charles Square. It drizzles the entire time, but Chris hopes the clouds will clear so they'll be able to see Venus from the top of Petrin Hill tonight after dinner (reservations at Restaurant Nebozízek). They don't, and he tries not to let that disappointment ruin the evening.

Minka can tell he's anxious about it, and she tries her best to distract him, feeding him the latest news from home, telling him about the puppy her best friend just got, gushing about getting to play Jackie Kennedy, asking him about _Snowpiercer_ even though they've already talked about it all day.

None of it works, but as they finish their dinner, she leans in with a hand on the inside of his thigh and whispers, "I know you're disappointed about the planets, but you can transit my Venus all night long if you want."

It's a _terrible_ line, so bad that Chris snorts loud enough to startle the couple two tables over.

"Is that a scientific fact?" he asks when he finally has his laughter under control.

"We won't know until you test it," she replies with a wicked smile.

Chris signals for the check.

They catch a cab back to his apartment in the Lesser Town, Minka brushing her fingers along his cock while he tries to give the driver directions. He finally has to grab her hand and hold it away from him so he can concentrate on his badly-accented Czech. (Thank _god_ for the intern whose job it was to make emergency vocabulary booklets for everyone on set, complete with the phonetic spelling of the street his apartment's on. Chris would be sunk many times over without that thing.)

They make it home with only one missed turn, and almost as soon as they're in the door, Minka is on her knees and tugging at his pants. She's got him so keyed up at this point, it'll be over before they even start if he lets her get her mouth on him, so he pulls her up and throws her over his shoulder.

"Hey!" she yelps when he smacks her ass before depositing her on his bed.

He flops down beside her, nuzzling her neck while he slips a hand under her shirt. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to speak Czech when you're being given a handjob?"

Minka laughs. "No, but I bet it's _really hard_."

"Ugh, what is it with you and the puns tonight?" he groans, nipping at her shoulder.

"You seemed like you could use some laughter. That crease between your eyebrows is getting deeper."

Chris stops sucking hickies into her neck to frown at her. Minka just looks back at him with an eyebrow raised.

"Sorry," he says, rubbing his hand absently against her side. "I've just had a lot on my mind recently. Didn't mean to let it get to me tonight."

"Well, let me take your mind off things." She rolls them over and straddles his thighs, pulling his shirt over his head and reaching once again for his belt.

She has him completely naked and she's moving down his body torturously slow, stopping every few inches to do things like bite his nipples and lick into his bellybutton, making him crazy with want. She has both of his wrists pinned, holding them down so he can't even touch her. When she finally gets to his cock, she licks it from base to tip just _once_ before backing off the bed.

"Where are you going?" he asks, voice a little desperate as he sits up.

"Just grabbing a condom," she says over her shoulder. "They're in the bathroom, right?"

Chris is about to say yes when he remembers. He was going to pick some up the other day, but the shoot went long and the pharmacy was closed before he got out. "I forgot to buy them," he admits, hanging his head.

"Oh. Well. Good thing I'm on the pill," she says, and that is definitely not what Chris is expecting her to say. Minka's usually all about doubling up on the protection, always saying you can never be too careful.

"You sure?" he asks, because he feels like it's rude not to.

"Yeah. Unless you don't want to?"

Chris is not sure how better to prove he wants to ( _oh how he wants to_ ) than by saying, "Can't think of anything I'd rather do," and reaching to pull her back on top of him.

Minka crawls over him, gives him a long and filthy kiss, and then sits back and sinks down on his cock, so slow it's almost painful. "That feel good, baby?"

"God, yes," he breathes, "love feeling how wet you are." She moans and starts playing with her tits, which only spurs him on. "Love this so much. I just wanna fill you up, get you full of my come. You want that?"

“Mmm.”

It’s not the response he wants, so he wraps a hand in her hair, tugging lightly. Her eyes pop open in surprise. “You want it?”

Her eyes are wide with surprise, but they snap shut when he pushes into her a little roughly, his hand gently guiding her head down so it’s close to his mouth. Chris’s mouth brushes up against hers as he says, “Hmm, you want me to put it in you, huh? Put a baby in you?”

Minka whines, "Yes, yeah," and then shudders around him. It only takes a few seconds of Minka writhing on top of him for Chris to follow, the feeling of wet warmth as he comes so different without the condom. It’s a bit slick as his come starts to slide out of her and back down onto him as she rests atop him, the both of them breathing heavy.

They lie there for a minute, quiet like they’re going to just fall asleep instead of take care of the mess on the both of them. But then Minka slides off of him and curls into his shoulder, and her quiet speaks more to thinking before talking than actually trying to sleep. "Chris,” she says, her voice calm, but serious. “You know I don't want to have kids, right? Like, at all."

"Uh, yes. It’s just dirty talk, okay?" He really doesn't want to do this right now, would really like to hold on to the endorphin high until he falls asleep instead of talk, especially about this. He's had this conversation with other girls, but it's never felt like a letdown before. Mostly because he’s lying this time: he didn’t know and it’s not just his dirty mouth in bed.

Minka shifts under his tense arm. "Are you mad at me? You're mad at me."

"What? No. No-"

"Don't lie to me, Chris, you're mad."

"I'm not mad," he insists, though he's starting to get upset. "I'm just - I was thinking we might…"

"We might what?" She's resting her chin on his chest, and he knows she's looking straight at him, but he looks away.

"I thought we might get married," he whispers, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. That’s pretty much a dismal failure, and his voice comes out rough, the way it gets when he’s trying really hard to pretend he’s not getting emotional about something. "Y'know, settle down, have a couple kids. I thought we were headed that direction."

"Oh." He can't tell what that means by the tone of her voice, so he tilts his head to look at her. The look on her face doesn't give anything away, either, so he doesn't know how the hell to proceed. In a lot of ways, she’s the counterbalance to him. Where she has a fucking stellar pokerface, he’s never been able to hide the shit that he feels.

He laughs, but it sounds horrible and almost a little mean. Chris isn’t going to pretend that it doesn’t hurt. “Yeah. Oh.” This is literally his nightmare when it comes to relationships: being more invested than his partner. He feels like a fucking fool.

"I'm not-" She stops, and this time when he looks at her face, there’s definitely something there. It doesn’t make him feel any better, but it feels a little less like he’s standing out on that ledge alone now. "I didn't realize you felt that way. I’m-” she sighs. “That’s a little fast for me, Chris.”

"Yeah, well." He's not sure what else to say.

Minka slips out of bed and goes to the bathroom, where she stays for almost an hour. Chris pretends like he's asleep when she finally comes out, and she puts on a nightshirt and moves to the second bedroom.

She leaves Prague two days early, promising to let him know when she makes it back to LA.

Chris isn't surprised that she just sends an email that says, "Made it home."

 

(There’s a call a few days after they break up where Scarlett asks him quietly, “Did you really want to marry her, Evans?” She’s being a lot nicer and gentler than she normally is - they spend a lot of time mocking each other’s romantic miseries - and he really wishes she were here. Prague is really fucking lonely, especially since most of his castmates are gone, all but the last few scenes finished.

“I don’t know,” Chris says, and there’s a moment where he really wonders if he actually saw them getting married and having kids or if it was just forced wishful thinking. He just doesn’t know anymore.

“Ahh,” Scarlett says, the phone rustling as she presumably gets into bed. Chris can hear Romain murmuring in the background, and Scarlett shushes him. The time difference is putting a real strain on their chats; he still can’t believe she lives in Paris now. “Is your biological clock ticking?”

“What?”

“I know men like you,” Scarlett says. “You have a little timer inside of you that winds down until you must mate and marry and make babies!” She makes a humming noise. “I don’t get it, either. What’s the rush? You could potentially knock someone up when you’re like _eighty_ , for fuck’s sake.”

That’s not the point and she knows it, but this conversation needs to end for Chris’s sanity. “Oh my god, shut up and go to bed, Scarlett.”

She yawns. “You know what I’m saying. Stop trying to force it, babe. You’ll know when it’s right.”

Chris smiles, running a hand through his beard still wet from the shower. “Yeah yeah. Thanks for the less than helpful chat. Love you.”

“You better.”)

 

**6\. Sebastian Stan**

Scarlett has told him repeatedly that it's bad form to make out with your costars off-camera, but Chris doesn't really have the best track record and it looks like he's not gonna improve it tonight, either.

His costars have always been really good kissers, and Sebastian is no exception to this rule. 

There are two bottles of wine (which Chris picked out - his taste has gotten substantially better, thanks in large part to dating Abigail long enough to learn a thing or two about wine selection), a joint (courtesy of Sebastian and his NY dealer who gets the good shit from BC), and _All the President’s Men_ , which leads to a conversation about _Deep Throat_ , which in turn leads to Chris pushing Sebastian back on the couch, the both of them more than a bit drunk, but not wasted enough that Chris can’t pop the button on Sebastian’s jeans before Sebastian pulls him down by the collar to kiss him.

Redford’s hassling Hoffman about the guy from Justice when Sebastian finally gets his hand into Chris’s pants and Chris starts to really feel the alcohol and weed cut off any higher brain function. Not much exists beyond Sebastian’s mouth and hand, and he lets the make out go lazy for a bit, just enjoying the haze of sensation.

"Uhh... Oh shiiiit." Chris whines between sloppy kisses full of tongues and teeth. “Want you, yeah. Yeah, want you to have my babies.” Yeah, he doesn’t quite remember giving his mouth permission to say that, but at this point… whatever. Sebastian clearly knows how to jerk a guy off, and it’s getting good enough that Chris would give him whatever he wanted to just keep that hand wrapped around his cock, babies included.

As soon as he says it though, Sebastian pulls back into the couch and scrunches his face, like he’s trying to figure out if he actually heard what he thinks he might have. Normally, Chris would be mortified, but he’s too drunk and high at this point to give a fuck, he just wants Sebastian’s mouth - and hand - back to work. 

"No way, dude,” Sebastian says roughly, but he sounds almost like he’s on the cusp of laughing. And then, as if to soften the blow, "You can have mine."

"Okay," Chris says with a shrug, leaning down to bite along Sebastian's jaw.

(Sebastian ends up pushing Chris back on the couch, yanking down his pants and giving him one of the best blowjobs of his entire life. Yeah, he’ll totally have Sebastian’s babies.)

 

**7\. Dakota Fanning**

The Golden Globes are always kind of a fucking disaster. Chris figures this is mostly because there's like fifteen bottles of wine for every person, and he, like almost everyone at the ceremony, feels those bottles should not go to waste.

But fifteen bottles of wine get to a person after a while, which is why he has to go take a piss an hour into the banquet.

He also chooses to blame the fifteen bottles of wine for not recognizing Dakota when he literally walks into her outside the bathrooms. Well, the fifteen bottles of wine and the fact that she's six inches taller than the last time he saw her. She's also wearing a dress that screams _I'm an adult now so it won't be weird if you want to make out with me_.

Okay, maybe that’s just his subconscious. But she looks really good, and very different than the kid he developed a healthy respect for on the painfully long, hot nights shooting in Hong Kong.

Dakota is a little drunk, too, judging by the way she says, "Hey, Chris, how's tricks?" and pats at his jacket.

He looks down at her hand and says, "They're good."

"Cool beans," she says, and he laughs.

"What are you, twelve?"

She punches his arm. "Douchebag, I'm twenty now, thanks."

"So not quite legal."

Dakota gives him a dead-eyed stare. "If you're going to lecture me about drinking tonight, then maybe you should take it up with the guy who took me drinking in Hong Kong five years ago."

Okay, yeah, maybe Chris _has_ had too much to drink tonight, because he gets righteously angry for about ten seconds before he remembers that _he_ was the one who introduced fifteen-year-old Dakota to Hong Kong nightlife. Definitely not one of his prouder moments. This is probably the point where he should walk away and go talk to Robert about changing his drinking habits, but instead he says, "Do you have to get back to the ceremony?"

"I'm here as Elle's plus-one. She's promoting her new Sleeping Beauty movie."

Chris nods. "Same. I mean, I'm promoting a movie, too. _Captain America_. We premiere in a couple months. It's gonna be great, I think. It was a really good shoot. And then I've got my film I directed, and the next _Avengers_ starts filming soon, and then more Cap. And then I'm quitting acting." He's babbling. He knows he's babbling, but he can't stop, and Dakota's probably gonna walk away, pretending like it was great to see him and—

She puts a hand on his arm and pulls him roughly sideways. "Blocking traffic, Chris."

"Sorry," he says over his shoulder to whoever it is that wanted by.

Dakota hasn't moved her hand from his arm, and he can feel her fingers flexing around his bicep. "Come on, let's hit the bar."

She pulls on his sleeve, half leads, half drags him into the bar, where other industry hacks are avoiding the pomp and circumstance happening across the building. She sits him down in a booth and disappears for a moment before returning with a bottle of lager for him and a scotch for herself. He watches her drink it and slowly realizes why so many kids in the business have substance abuse issues: no one gives a fuck about legal age limits in Hollywood.

"Quitting acting, huh?" she asks, reaching for some sort of snack mixture they have at the bar. It looks disgusting, but she takes a handful and eats it.

"Yep." He lets the 'p' pop. "Gonna direct."

"Cool beans," she says again. "Cast me in something, yeah?"

"Of course."

They spend an hour drinking and catching up, which mostly amounts to swapping horror stories about their worst choices over the last five years. ("I was naked _a lot_." " _Twilight_ , Chris. _Twi. Light_." "Fine. You win.") It's easy, like their friendship has always been, banter and jokes snapping back and forth between them (which is probably why it translated to awkwardly good chemistry on film).

When the bar gets too crowded, they somehow end up in the room Marvel booked for Chris upstairs (a common tactic when studios are worried about their stars getting completely fucking sloshed at the event without a good exit strategy), Dakota rummaging through his minibar and yanking out little booze bottles, a kit kat, and a Heineken. She works on the tiny bottles of vodka and the kit kat while Chris snaps the top of the beer off and steals one of the kit kat pieces from her.

"Okay, confession time," Dakota says when they've exhausted all topics of conversation. She's sitting on the bed, legs dangling over the side. Chris is on the floor beside her, head tilted back so he can look at her. "I've had a crush on you _forever_." She draws out the last word like the kid from _The Sandlot_.

Chris is at the giggly stage of drunkeness, because instead of getting embarrassed like he normally would, he just starts laughing. "Really?"

"Yes, really. It wouldn't be a confession if it wasn't true, doofus." She nudges her knee against his shoulder. "Your turn."

"Okaaay." He puts a finger to his lips and ponders for a moment. He could go with something PG, but the great thing about alcohol is that his brain-to-mouth filter goes kaput after the second or third beer, and he’s had a lot more booze than that this evening. So he goes for something he hopes will shock her. "Remember that hotel set with the weird shower? Camilla and I totally fucked in there for real."

"Doesn't count. I already knew that." She flops back on the bed, turning her head toward him with a bored stare.

"What?” Chris chokes on his beer a bit and shifts away from the bed so he can look at her head-on. “How could you know that? There was no one on set."

Dakota gives him a look that says she expects better of him. "I'd left my homework by the camera dolly and had to go back and get it. I saw you going down on her."

This time he full-on chokes, enough that he coughs beer all over the sleeve of his new shirt, and pushes the bottle away from himself to avoid a third round of hacking. God, he’s not sure what’s worse: that his underage costar saw him eating a girl out, or that she was so young she was going back for her _homework_.

She waits for him to catch his breath, and then he sees the evil tilt of her lips. "Pretty sure Camilla saw me, too. Guess she didn't tell you."

Yeah, Camilla had _definitely_ not told him. But to be fair, by the time Chris had finished with her, she hadn’t exactly been coherent. She was a nice enough girl, and surprisingly good at giving head, but he still cringes when he watches their scenes together. Zero chemistry.

“Quite the Sex Ed lesson,” she says, her words a bit slurred.

Jesus fucking Christ, Chris is officially going to hell. He drops his head into his hands. “Oh my god.”

She laughs. “Listen, I was either homeschooled or taught by tutors on set my entire childhood. Everything I learned about sex before I actually had it was either from my mother,” she makes a really awful face, and Chris tries not to laugh because he can only imagine what her face would look like if she knew exactly how much his mother taught him about sex, “or porn.” 

She’s lying back against the bed now, her dress riding up her thighs a bit from where she’s pressed against the sheets, so he can’t see her face when she says, “Or you.”

Yep, he's going to the special hell, because he’s not stopping himself from staring at the dark space under her skirt where her thighs disappear beneath fabric. 

She rolls her head over a bit, enough that she can look at him, and he tears his eyes away from that little dark space so he can look at her. “Okay, embarrassing confessions time again?” she says, and he almost says no because this has probably gone too far, but he’s drunk, and he’ll lean on that crutch as an excuse when he says, “What?”

Dakota turns her head back up to look at the ceiling, like she can’t look at him and say what she’s about to say. “I’ve never had that.”

“Had what?”

She laughs, and she sounds actually embarrassed for the first time this evening. “Someone go down on me.”

“What?” God, what is wrong with dudes? There’s a lot Chris likes about sex, but going down on a girl? The best. He’s always been a bit of a pleaser, and there’s nothing better than the look on a girl’s face after you’ve made them come on your mouth. "Never?"

Chris thinks she's shaking her head _no_ , but it's hard to tell from where he's sitting on the floor.

"You need better boyfriends."

Dakota sits up at that and peers over at him. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Well then, you need to find one who knows what he's doing."

There's a pregnant pause, and then Dakota says, "You know what you're doing."

Chris is glad he stopped drinking his beer, because he's pretty sure he couldn't handle a third spit-take. "What!?" he squawks.

"I said, _you_ know what you're doing." She isn't looking at him again, has an arm thrown over her eyes like she's mortified that she just said that, _which she should be_ , because he totally is.

He should shut this down right fucking now, make her drink three glasses of water, text her sister to come get her, and send her on her way. Instead, he moves back to lean against the bed again, pressing his shoulder against her thigh.

"That doesn't make me a better boyfriend," he says after a moment, thinking about what a terrible boyfriend he's actually been to so many people over the years.

The comment gets him a smack on the head. "Don't be an idiot, Chris. There is no way in hell I'm dating you. That would be weird."

He means to turn so he can look at her again, but Dakota moves at the same time and his mouth collides with the outside of her knee. She tenses but doesn't pull away, and he presses a gentle kiss to her kneecap. The next time he presses his mouth to her, this time just above the inside of her knee and a little wetter, she shivers hard enough that he can feel it.

Chris pulls away to say _okay, that’s enough, I’m sorry_ , but the words get lodged in his throat when she reaches down and tugs at his hair.

" _Please_."

And okay, the way she says it, there's really no way Chris can say no. He will use this to justify his actions to himself later, but right now, he's concentrating on sliding his hands under the edge of Dakota's dress, pushing the skirt further up her thighs so he can get a good look at her. She opens her legs wider, and he can see that she's already soaked through her electric orange panties. He's dizzy with lust or maybe with alcohol, and he leans forward to press his lips against her underwear.

It makes her jump and he starts to pull away again, but she just grips tighter at his hair.

"Don't stop," she sighs and lets her heels slip a bit against the bedspread.

He presses a second kiss to her damp panties before dragging them down and off. When he leans a bit of his weight against her knee with his shoulder, she spreads her legs farther apart obligingly. Chris takes a shaky breath and just… goes for it.

There’s a second when he’s eating her out where his mind starts to wander, as it always does when he’s doing something that he really shouldn’t be doing, and he thinks, _she’s fertile_ , and then his mind does a fucking bellyflop into his skull because Jesus fucking Christ, there isn’t a special hell special enough for Chris.

He's in the middle of this already, though, and it would be far worse to stop at this point. So he keeps going, tries to keep his mind away from thoughts like, _look how wet she is_ and _god, I could just fill her right up_ , decides he can beat himself up later for being unsuccessful at that.

She comes like a jolt, and though he's hard, he waves her off when she tries to reciprocate. He feels like he's done enough damage for one night, more than corrupted Dakota, even if she asked him to. He can take care of himself after she goes.

"That was fun," she says as she pulls on her panties and checks her phone to find out where her sister is, "but I've had better."

His jaw falls open in shock. He can't believe he's been fucking played (he can totally believe it; this is _Dakota_ , stone-faced innocent queen of pranks).

"See you around, Chris." She pats him on the cheek and gives a little wave before ducking out the door.

(Three days later, Chris gets an email: "I totally lied. You were _way_ better.")

 

**8\. Hayley Atwell**

To be honest, the _Avengers 2_ shoot is stressful for Chris in a way that the first wasn’t. The first was more about whether the whole idea was going to fly in the first place; everyone was too busy wondering what sound their careers would make hitting the asphalt of Blockbuster Flop Blvd. to really focus on anything else. This time, everyone seems legitimately happy: Scarlett’s pregnant, Robert’s wife is pregnant, Hemsworth’s twins are cute as shit, Renner seems to be trying for another one with his maybe!wife (they wear rings, but he’s not sure if they’ve actually gotten married), and Mark is always damn happy.

In fact, the only people who aren’t happy are Chris and Joss. Joss mostly because of Scarlett’s pregnancy and the logistical issues it’s caused the shoot even though he tries to put on an act about being thrilled for her and not worried about it, then bitches when she’s not around. Because he’s kind of a dick.

Chris isn’t sure why he slides down into such a ridiculous spiral of self-pity. Yeah, it fucking sucks that the one last goddamn member of the main cast who wasn’t tied down with kids has joined the cult of domesticity, but it’s more that… it’s just him now. It feels really fucking lonely, even if he’s genuinely thrilled that Scarlett is so happy about it. He hasn’t seen her smile like this in a long time, so he spends a lot of time teasing her and touching her belly because she secretly loves it, but pretends like she hates it.

(“Why the fuck are you calling it Baguette?” she asks him one night. It’s shocking how quickly her bump gets noticeable. Then _big_. It looks like she’s got a melon shoved under her shirt, which makes him think of Abigail and laugh.

“You know,” he says, waving his hand around as she looks at him like she doesn’t have a clue, “a French bun,” her eyes narrow dangerously, “in your oven.”

Her half-peeled orange actually hits him between the eyes.)

Chris is thankful when he goes off with the second unit to shoot a few Cap-only scenes as it gives him some breathing room from everyone and their incredibly fulfilling private family lives. One of the scenes - a dream sequence - has them shooting in an old London dancehall. Truth be told, this is one of the scenes Chris has been waiting to shoot since he got the script a few weeks ago, mostly because it features Peggy and Chris fucking adores Hayley.

For the first time in the five weeks since he started shooting, he is genuinely happy. Hayley has the wickedest sense of humour, and the second unit is so much fun that he’s disappointed they only have a couple days together. The first night, Hayley takes Chris to this little pub she knows in the city, and he can relax, take off the load of being Captain America, if only for a little while. They catch up on life, congratulate each other on their recent successes, and Hayley commiserates with him about their costars' domesticity. He calls them the Marvel domestics, and she laughs, ordering them both another beer.

Chris starts getting anxious on the third day of the shoot. Hayley’s only got another day with them before they finish the Peggy scene. They spend most of the day kissing, Steve a lot bolder in his dream than he was in the first movie, so by the end of the day, Chris is so sexually frustrated and anxious that he feels like he’s going to implode.

Usually his cure for this is:  
1) Calling his mother  
2) Tweeting something vague because he doesn’t want to look like a drama queen  
3) Checking out the NASA blog  
4) Finding semi-decent online porn to jerk off to  
5) Texting Scarlett

This time, Chris makes the excellent choice of inviting Hayley back to his trailer, nudging her down on the weird couch-slash-day-bed thing they’ve got in there and making out with her because they haven't done enough of that today. They’re still in their costumes - Hayley in Peggy’s SSR uniform and Chris in Steve’s military get up - and they really should change out of them before the costume department murders them for wrinkling their clothes.

Chris is sucking what is sure to be a lovely hickey into Hayley’s neck that make-up will have to cover up, his hands up her skirt and rubbing right over her cunt in a way that lets him feel how wet she is, when he hears her sigh dreamily, “Steve.”

And then her entire body goes rigid. “Oh my _god_ ,” she whispers. “ _Oh my god_.”

“Really? Steve?” Chris says, secretly delighted. He knows that Hayley is dying right now and it’s so, so great. “I’m not sure if I should be insulted or really flattered.”

“OH MY GOD, SHUT UP!” she whines with a choked laugh at the end, shoving her face into the crook of his neck. Her breath is hot and wet, and he is still ramped up and ready to go, so he presses his body down into her and smiles at the terribly desperate noise she makes.

“It’s okay, you can call me whatever you want, sweetheart,” he says, leaning down to bite at her mouth a bit before kissing her again. She groans when he sucks on her tongue, his hands still up under her skirt, and she’s more than hot for whatever this is, so he indulges himself by nestling his mouth up near her ear and whispering, “Peggy.”

And holy shit, her entire body just convulses against him in the most delicious way, her hips grinding up against his cock, and he says, "Did you just—?"

She bites her lip and nods.

"Holy shit. Can you do it again?"

She squirms beneath him but nods. "If you'll give me a minute."

He laughs, "Of course," and starts working on removing their clothes. He secretly wondered if Hayley wore period-accurate lingerie for the Peggy scenes, and he's thrilled to find that she does. She pouts a little once she's worked his pants down to reveal his plain gray boxer-briefs, which only makes him laugh more.

Hayley takes off her own bra, and god almighty, the outfits they’ve had her in have always flattered her curvy, old-school body type, but naked, she’s absolutely stunning. In the time it takes her to come down a bit, he settles between her legs and mouths at her tits, rolling his tongue over her nipples while she rakes her fingers through his hair.

“That do it for you?” he asks, lifting his mouth from her skin. She hums as she opens her eyes again to look at him, and he can tell she’s thinking he means his mouth on her, so her clarifies. “You enjoy that? Me calling you Peggy?”

Her eyes shut again and the harshest looking blush starts to bloom somewhere around her collarbone and travels up her neck to her face. Chris can tell that she’s embarrassed by it, which immediately makes him think of all the fucking awful conversations he’s had about all the shit he enjoys in bed. All of it is pretty funny to him because on his list of kinks? A little roleplaying is nothing. “Jesus, Chris,” she says, scrunching her nose up, her eyes still squeezed shut.

“Mm, no,” he says, running a thumb over her nipple again, which makes her back arch. “Steve.”

Her eyes fly open at that. “What?”

He considers explaining it to her, telling her about the shit he's gotten for his chatter and how he thinks people should be able to say what they want without embarrassment, but instead he just says, "Call me Steve."

There’s a moment where she looks incredibly dubious, like she almost doesn’t want to, but he just leans back in, snakes his hand down between her legs, _presses_ , and whispers, “Peggy,” into her ear.

“Yes, yes, okay, Steve, please,” she whines, nearly incoherent as his fingers tangle in her panties and pull them down. Hayley is really, really into it, and he’s always enjoyed it when his partner is as into it as he is, so he’s more than happy to indulge her. To be honest, it’s getting him going a bit too.

(And now he’ll have a completely different answer when reporters ask him if anyone’s ever called him 'Captain' in bed.)

“Peggy,” he says, cupping Hayley’s face in his hands reverently, which makes her breathing go erratic. He kisses her long and slow, tender the way Steve would, and he feels himself sinking back into the role effortlessly. “Please. I want-- please let me.”

She nods shakily, pulling her legs up to wrap around his waist, spreading herself underneath him. “I want you so much. Please, Steve.”

It takes Chris about three seconds to grab a condom from the drawer in the small table by the couch. He tucks it into his hand because it’s not part of this little fantasy, but he can feel the edges of the wrapper in his palm when he says, “I know, Peggy, and when this is all over, I'm gonna make an honest woman of you.”

And wow, that may be the most absurd thing he's ever said in bed. And that’s saying a lot. But Hayley doesn’t seem to care, and by the time he’s got the condom on and is sliding inside of her, she’s got such a blissed out look on her face that Chris can’t help but feel incredibly smug.

Usually, other than a few hundred choruses of the dirty shit that floats through his brain during sex, his mind is blissfully empty when he’s inside someone. But for some reason with Hayley underneath him, begging Steve to fuck her, to make her come, his mind wanders into that space that he goes to when he’s acting, when he needs to slide into a character to make his performance believable.

He thinks about how much Steve would want this, how he’d want to treat her right, make her feel loved. How he _would_ marry her after the war, would wait as long as she needed him to until he could slide that ring on her finger. How they’d have kids, little bright-eyed babies with Steve’s smile and Peggy’s nose. How beautiful Peggy would look pregnant…

He comes instantly, jerking roughly into Hayley, who drags her hand down between their bodies to get herself the rest of the way there, whining into Chris’s chest as she orgasms hard enough that it hurts as she bears down on his cock inside her.

“Oh shit,” she sighs when Chris flops on top of her a bit, her hand running up and down his sweaty back, letting him rest against her until he gains enough strength to pull out and deal with the condom.

Later, they're cuddling on the couch, watching some show about sexy restaurant workers on the BBC, when there's a knock at the door.

He answers it in his boxer-briefs, using his body to try to hide the fact that Hayley's sitting on the couch behind him in one of his shirts. The PA at the door is nonplussed. "Mr. Evans, wardrobe needs your costume back."

"Right, um, just a second." He shuts the door and picks up his discarded clothes, hoping like hell he won't get an earful about its wrinkled state tomorrow. He opens the door back up and hands the bundle to the PA, who frowns at it and then looks back at him.

"If you could let Ms. Atwell know they need her costume as well, please."

"I’ll do that." Chris hears Hayley's choked laughter behind him as he nods at the PA. He shuts the door a little more forcefully than strictly necessary and turns to look at Hayley, who is slumped on the couch in a giggle fit.

"I suppose I should take my leave of you," she says after she's recovered. "Wouldn't want anyone catching on."

She slips out of his shirt and starts putting her clothes back on, smiling back at him when he helps her into her jacket.

"Captain," she says with a quirk of her eyebrow as she stands in the doorway.

"Agent Carter," he returns with an eyebrow lift of his own.

The next day, while shooting an incredibly emotional scene that has Peggy dying in Steve’s arms as he cries her name, Hayley cannot stop laughing.

They have to break for twenty minutes.

 

(Hayley comes back for flashbacks in _Cap 3_ , and shows up to set with a giant rock on her left ring finger.

“I know, I know!” she says with a laugh as Chris plays with the ring, admiring the giant fucking diamond. Seriously, it’s huge. “Tom proposed last week, total surprise. Still getting used to having this thing on my hand - it freaks me out a bit!”

Hayley leans in and gives Chris a huge hug, which makes him realize how much he’s missed having her around. While he tries to spend less time in LA these days, he almost never makes it London, which mean he rarely gets to see Hayley in person. While they were never more than a hook-up, they’ve managed to stay really fantastic friends in spite of it.

“I promise,” she tells him seriously, even though she’s got a bit of a smile on her face, “I promise I won’t become one of the domestic Marvels.” She wraps herself around his waist, ducking under his arm.

Chris gives her a kiss on the forehead and smiles back. Then says quietly by her ear, “So, does Tom let you call him Loki in bed?”

Hayley jerks back and narrows her eyes at him. “Oh tell me there’s a scene where I get to shoot at you again.”)

 

**+1. Scarlett Johansson**

Chris has known Scarlett for thirteen years, seven months, and sixteen days, but they've only been a couple (which still gives him jitters) for one year, two months, and twenty-three days. Not that Chris has been counting.

Despite the tabloids' insistence that Chris is the reason Scarlett breaks her engagement with Lettucehead ( _Oh my fucking god, I can’t believe you CALL HIM THAT_ , Scarlett bitched at him the first time he slipped and accidentally called Romain that out loud), he has very little to do with their split after Baguette (née Aurélie) is born. Sure, he was aware things had been strained, but he's busy directing his second film in Boston when they finally part ways, and he is merely treated to the blow by blow after the fact when Scarlett calls him in tears.

(It is worse than her divorce from Reynolds, and that’s saying a lot.)

He and Scarlett hardly even see each other until the press tour for _Ultron_ , which is almost six months after the fact. (He ignores the fact that a large part of those six months is dedicated to talking to Scarlett whenever she calls, no matter what the time. That is what friends do for each other when they've gone through a bad breakup. God knows she did the same for him for more than a decade. It's not like he's going to ignore her in her time of need.)

They don’t actually start dating until halfway through filming _Cap 3_ , and while other people (Scarlett) might not be able to pin down the exact date, since there were playdates with Baguette that ended in cuddling after putting her to bed, and also that first-day-of-filming hook-up because Scarlett said she needed to get laid and he never could say no to her, Chris knows exactly when it happened.

It’s when they’re getting snacks from craft services at 3AM after filming an “emotionally cathartic” scene leading up to Steve’s reconciliation with Bucky. They are both dragging, physically and emotionally drained from throwing accusations and insults at one another all day, and Scarlett has spent the last twenty minutes anxiously texting her night nanny to let her know she’ll be back soon. 

Chris rests his head on Scarlett's and says, "Hey, let's go out."

Scarlett scrunches her face up and shifts away to give him an incredulous look. "I'm not going out tonight, Evans, are you fucking nuts?"

"Not tonight. Tomorrow."

She stares at the bagel in front of her like she’s trying to dissect it with her mind, then reaches out to poke it with her finger like it’s a science experiment. She shrugs. "Okay."

They've been together ever since.

It's been great (it's been _fucking fantastic_ ), and really, Chris isn't sure why they waited almost fifteen years to actually do this thing.

Sure, he’s had nay-sayers (including Scarlett sometimes) who try to insist that he doesn't want to saddle himself with somebody else's kid, but he _adores_ Baguette (and god, so does his _mom_ , enough that he’s pretty sure that he’s been moved down a rung, Baguette firmly ensconced in his former space as one of her favorite kiddos). She's going to be three soon, and she calls him "Uncle Chris" and there are piggyback rides and he loves every minute of it.

Anyway.

Right now, Baguette is asleep, and Chris and Scarlett are making out in the kitchen. It started out pleasantly domestic (him sidling up behind her while she was cleaning up the absolute disaster that was their attempt at spaghetti bolognese, wrapping his arms around her waist), but now that he’s got her up on the kitchen table, her shirt somewhere over his shoulder and the button to his jeans undone, it’s definitely pushing into positively indecent territory.

Then he gets his hands down into her shorts, under the thin layer of her panties, and she’s wet. Very, very wet. She opens up so beautifully under his fingers when he presses them into her and makes a quiet little noise. His house in LA is big, but Baguette is a pretty light sleeper and his former office (now her bedroom - he had it painted with elephants and giraffes, which are her favourite animals) is near the top of the stairs, so they’ve gotten used to being a hell of a lot quieter when doing this.

So he leans down, plastering his body to hers as he drags his fingers over her clit, letting his mouth fall by her left ear as he whispers, “You want me to fill you up, don’t you? Hmm?” He slips a finger inside of her. “Fill you up until I’m dripping out of you. Get you nice and round.”

Scarlett laughs at him, then claps a hand over her mouth to stifle it. "I can't believe you still find this hot. You know, especially since… _fait accompli_ , fucker."

"Baby, you're the hottest thing I've ever seen."

He pulls his hand out of her panties and runs it down over her breasts, then drags just the tips of his fingers over the light curve of her belly. She’s barely even showing, but he can feel the little differences of her body. Her breasts are already fuller, and before long, they'll be spilling over her bras (he _can't wait_ for that, loves it so much). He's been trying to measure the curve of her stomach every day, but he's pretty sure she noticed because she's started wearing loose clothing even around the house. It just makes him want to hold her down so he can check the progress of _their kid. Theirs_. It sends a thrill through him every time he thinks about it. He leans down to kiss just above her bellybutton, looking up at her through his eyelashes.

“Plus, you know how I love it when you speak French to me.”

“Don’t call me baby,” Scarlett says as she rolls her eyes so hard he's a little worried she's going to hurt herself. "And quit yapping, Evans. Put that mouth of yours to some actual good use."

He smiles against her stomach and starts to inch lower. "Yes, ma'am."

 

(“Ugh, fuck you, Evans! I signed on for one more kid, not two!” Scarlett whines after the sonogram shows two little hearts beating in there. They are about four weeks into shooting _Avengers 3_ when the word gets out, and Joss Whedon barely speaks to Chris for the remainder of the shoot. 

(Because Joss is a dick.)

Six months later, they release the first photos of the twins. They donate the royalties to Planned Parenthood.)

**Author's Note:**

> We regret nothing. Except maybe the part where we couldn't figure out how to write Sandra Bullock in without making her bit sad.
> 
> (FALSE: WE REGRET A LOT. OR AT LEAST ONE OF US DOES.)


End file.
